A Handful of Blackcurrants
Emma hadn’t made much fuss about Christmas this year. Her daughter, Sophie, had said she’d be spending the holidays with friends at their countryside cottage. And really, what did Emma need? A few mince pies, a bit of potato salad, an evening in front of the telly, then off to bed. Sophie would be back soon enough.
When Peter was alive, they’d gather with a houseful of friends—eating, drinking, watching the Christmas specials, then out into the frosty night with sparklers and crackers. They’d join the carol singers around the town square’s tree, laughing as they pulled others into their makeshift games. Even the younger crowd couldn’t resist their cheer.
Emma wiped away a tear. Nearly three years since Peter had passed, and she still hadn’t adjusted. Maybe she never would.
She took his framed photo from the shelf. His eyes were crinkled with laughter, lips curved in that easy smile she’d loved. It was the same picture she’d chosen for his headstone. Every time she visited the grave, she’d study it closely, convinced his expression shifted—sometimes welcoming, other times stern if she’d stayed away too long.
Ridiculous, of course. But each visit, she’d wonder which Peter would greet her.
“Miss you terribly, love. Wish we had grandkids, something to keep me busy. But Sophie’s in no rush after that bloke went and married her best friend. Too scared to try again. Though lately, she’s been brighter—maybe someone new? I won’t pry…”
The front door clicked open. Emma set the photo back hastily.
“Mum? You home?” Sophie’s voice rang from the hallway.
“Where else would I be? Back so early?” Emma met her in the corridor.
“Left work ahead of time. Won’t stay for supper—Liz and her husband are picking me up soon.”
“That’s sudden! Weren’t you leaving Christmas Eve?” Emma frowned.
“Change of plans. We need to air out the cottage, prep the tree, all that… Oh, did I pack my charger?” Sophie darted about, tossing items into her bag. “Right, shoes—hair straightener!” She dashed to the bathroom, returning with the appliance before zipping her case shut.
“Think that’s everything. Sorry to leave you alone, Mum. You could visit someone?”
“Not fussed about the fuss. When’ll you be back?”
“Third or fourth. See how it goes.” Sophie’s eyes sparkled. Emma hadn’t seen her this lively in ages. *Definitely someone new. Good.*
A car horn sounded outside.
“Gotta run, Mum!” A peck on the cheek, a flick of her coat, and Sophie was gone.
Emma scanned the hallway—gloves? Hat? All taken. She drifted back to the quiet living room, Peter’s photo drawing her gaze.
“There she goes. Oh, Peter, you left too soon…” She sighed. In the frame, his eyes seemed to twinkle back.
Needing distraction, she rummaged through the cluttered cupboard—bills, old letters, junk. Toss the rubbish, keep the rest. Then a scrawled address caught her eye. *James. Peter’s old mate.* Memories surfaced…
They’d met at a mutual friend’s birthday. A few cinema trips, harmless enough. Then James brought Peter along. One look, and Emma’s heart stuttered. James noticed, stepped aside without a word. Good man. She’d never regretted choosing Peter.
James married later, but it soured. He moved to a village miles away—some inherited cottage. They’d visited a couple of times, Emma, Peter, and little Sophie.
James had envied them, jokingly told Emma to come running if Peter ever slipped up. Peter just laughed. They’d had their rows, sure, but never anything lasting.
*He came to the funeral. Didn’t even recall sending word—maybe Sophie did? I was barely coherent. He begged me to visit, to get away. But I couldn’t. Too busy grieving at the grave. Never made it to him.*
She shut the drawer, clutching the address.
“Peter… maybe I should go? You wouldn’t mind?” The photo seemed to nod.
Emma rang the coach station, checked timetables, then baked scones. Couldn’t arrive empty-handed. Who’d bake for James now? She worked past midnight, slept deeply.
By nine, she was on the coach, envisioning James’s surprise, their shared stories… She dozed off.
A chatter of passengers woke her. Nearly empty now. Outside, snow-dusted cottages loomed. She bundled up as the coach halted at the village edge.
James’s gate was padlocked. She fumbled at the latch.
“Oi! What’re you doing?” A thin woman in wellies scowled from the lane.
“Just visiting James… James Whitmore.”
“That one’s gone. Nine days now.”
“*Gone?*” Emma’s stomach dropped.
The woman waved her off. “On your way, then.”
Emma turned. No footprints marred the snowy path. She trudged back, blinking back tears. The return coach was still there.
Home by dusk, she sipped tea with the scones meant for James. *Church tomorrow. Light a candle.*
That night, Peter visited her dreams—smiling, offering a palmful of plump blackcurrants. She woke with a jolt, the berry’s scent lingering.
Dressing, she puzzled over the omen. Had he come for her?
At the church, she lit two candles—one for Peter, one for James. The second flickered out.
“Don’t light for the living,” a hunched woman muttered.
Emma shivered.
Back home, the telly droned, but her eyes kept straying to Peter’s photo. Unease prickled. The kettle whistled—then the doorbell.
*Neighbour borrowing sugar?*
The man on the step was bundled in a puffer jacket, hat low. Emma gasped.
“Emma! It’s me—James!” He stepped inside.
Her voice failed. “You…?”
“Who else? Not thrilled to see me?” He dropped a duffel bag.
“I went to your village! Some old crone said you’d—nine days dead!”
“Ah. Mrs. Dawkins. Gets everything backward. My son fetched me—loaded the car with jams, potatoes. She must’ve assumed the worst. Stayed with him a bit, but cities choke me now. Thought I’d pop by—you okay?”
Relief hit. They laughed over her ghost story. She mentioned the dream, the candle. James dug dried currant leaves from his bag. “Brew these.”
The kitchen filled with summer’s ghost. They shared currant tea and scones as Big Ben chimed midnight.
Next morning, James left for the village. “Come visit. Spring’s lovely—orchards all in bloom.”
“I’ve seen it,” Emma teased, waving until the coach vanished.
The flat smelled of currants. *So that was the dream’s meaning. Silly to fret.*
“Left me alone, Peter,” she told the photo. “Suppose I’ll visit James, then.”
“Visit who?” Sophie stood in the doorway.
“You’re early!”
“What’s that smell?”
“Currants. James dropped by. And you’re not alone?” A man hovered behind Sophie.
“Mum, this is Daniel.”
He stepped forward, smiling.
*Guests piling in like berries. Dream was right.*
“Dan proposed,” Sophie blurted, glowing.
Emma ushered them in. Over currant tea and shop-bought cake, Sophie curled into her.
“You love him?”
“Yes. Mum… he’s divorced. The ex got the London flat. Mind if we stay here till we save up?”
Emma’s chest tightened. A stranger in the house… But Sophie wasn’t young. If not now, when?
She glanced at Peter’s photo. *Well, love? Shall we see those orchards bloom?*
Just like that, Emma’s quiet life shifted. Christmas—time for miracles, if you believe. And ahead lay New Year’s, ripe with promise.
